without title for the moment
by Delilah Draken
Summary: What if the end of Empire Strikes Back did happen a bit differently?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The stories are mine. All the rest - characters and locations you've heard of in TV shows, movies, books etc - belong to their respective owners.

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Beru was born as a daughter of the dunes, a child of the desert that never had the honour to actually live among the great sand fields that so dominate the nature of Tatooine. She was proud to look back to a long family history going back to the times before the Second Colonization. Or at least, that is how the Tusken would have described the time period in question. If one had asked any other person on the planet they would tell you that Tatooine was only colonized once and that even this one attempt at terraforming didn't go as well as expected.

For you see, nobody but the Tusken remembers that Tatooine was just an empty lifeless rock before they came to settle there. The historians and scientists of the old Republic were often baffled that a harsh environment like Tatooine's dune sea would be gentle enough to allow great civilizations to build their temples, but they never found a reason not to believe said civilizations were not already dead and long gone from the planet. But the old people of the sand were never gone. They had merely decided to leave their old cities to crumble and live the way their ancestor had done before settling Tatooine. They found it better to live from the land than to ruin the world with their useless monuments. That the Tusken were an inherently violent and nomadic culture was only a plus to this decision.

Not all Tusken left the cities though. A small number of them stayed behind to protect the history hidden away behind stone walls. And when many years later the colonists came with their space ships and water evaporators and technology that hated the sand as much as its creators did, well, the city dwellers did what all Tusken do best. They changed with the environment and became a part of the new colony that was built.

And so it came that the once proud Tusken heritage of the cities dilluted itself to mere fairy tales that parents tell their suckling young. Nothing more than fancy ideas hidden behind the veil of obscurity that had apparently always muffled the voices of the slave caste.

Until a child was born to a woman named Skywalker, a woman who would later be bought for the pleasure of a homestead patriach. Lars was the man's name and he fell hopelessly in love with his slave. So much in love that he cast aside the memory of his dead first companion, the mother of his only son, and married the woman. Many would call this a scandal as old Lars chose to make his dear Shmi a free woman before demanding her vows of fidelity. Just not done with slaves, they said. It has always been alright to fall in love with staff, but to free them before the marriage was simply outragious.

Beru understood this better than others. She loved her Owen dearly and knew he did as well, or he would not introduce her as his fiancé, but marriage was so far beyond her imagination that she hoped the question would never be asked.

In the short time Shmi Skywalker was the honest matriach of the Lars family, she told many stories to Beru. Stories about her son, the master pilot, who went out into to the galaxy to become a Jedi. Stories about her son, the dark dreamer, who swore to free all slaves come death or water. Stories about her son, the impossible gift, whom she had never told that he was the result of a short love affair with a Tusken raider lost in the city. And stories about the dark past of Tatooine, when the desert tribes were united under one name and their giant fleet travelled the galaxy in search for a new home. Shmi also told of the legend of the Vader, this great warrior destined to fight daylight for eternity until gentle dusk would touch his knife and teach him that night and day need not make war.

This one, Beru learned, was a particular favourite to Shmi's little Anakin. So much that he spent his whole fourth year of life with his head wrapped like a desert raider and play-acting all great deeds of this night-worshipping character. "You see," Shmi had said, "no child of the desert can follow the light. They love the shadows too much." It was no wonder that her child, or any child of Tatooine at all, would prefer a hero who chose to never walk under a sun's harsh glare.

Later, when Shmi was gone and she had had her first good look at Anakin Skywalker, Beru understood why Shmi would talk so fondly of 'her bright little darkling'. His life under the Jedi's tutelage had made the boy forget most of his heritage and he actually seemed to prefer sunlight to night now, but under all this was still the child who dreamed of becoming Vader when he grew up.

Beru liked Anakin. He frightened her to death sometimes, but still she liked him.

Then came the war and that was followed by the birth of an Empire.

And then a baby was given to Beru to look after.


	2. Part 1

He swam.

That is what the doctors ordered and that is what he did.

He swam and tried his very best to like it.

Though if he were really honest with himself, and he always was in this area, the sensation of being surrounded by so much water was abhorrend to him. "Water brings life," his mother had said once, "and water ends all life. Water can only be one of the two." No middle ground, that he knew with the point blank certainty of a child raised in the dunes.

Still, he swam.

The doctors had ordered it and that is what he did. After all, there was still a tiny shred of hope inside his dead heart that just could not stop to dream of getting well again. Healing, what a ridiculous thought. The doctors had also told him that he was far too damaged to repair, that some things not even the best surgeon can fix with implants and cloned tissues.

For the last three years, eight months and twenty-seven days he had had the glorious fortune to learn how to live with the damage. He got used to the never-ending metronome that walked with him wherever he went, each breath taken both blessing and rightly deswerved punishment. If he felt a bit of phantom pain in his arms or legs it was nothing more than a minor annoyance to be ignored at his convenience.

His suit, this masterpiece of engineering in the form of mobile life support, he actually liked. It reminded him of better times. He could remember an innnocent boy, who wrapped himself in darkness and played at being Dayslayer for just another day, please, mom, please.

And so he swam.

Because couldn't not do it. That would be like giving up and he was far too stubborn to be made to kneel before his own... fragility. The doctors said the activity would help his lung capacity and the chemicals they put into the water are supposed to help with his scars. So far there was no betterment, but he remained hopeful.

No. That was the wrong word.

He felt no hope. He felt absolutely certain that one day he would no longer be dependent on a machine to breath for him. Everything else would have been unacceptable.

He swam and swam and swam.

He swam until the droid hovering above him told him to get out of the water. He swam until it tightened its grip on the breathing tube that connected droid to man and forced him to stop else he'd rip off his oxygen mask.

"What?" he said and for a short moment he was shocked to hear his voice so weak.

"You have got mail, sir," the droid replied.

He was treading water, weighing the idea of going a few moments without sweet air to the knowledge that his medical watchbeast would be very vexed with him. If said droid were capable of such finer emotions, that it.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Put the transmission through."

"I cannot do this, sir."

"And why is that so?" Oh, how he wished to wear his suit at the moment. His words would have thundered from every wall of the room, a deep rumble that promised a swift and painful end. Instead he had to listen to a light hiss, barely audible at all.

"It is a flimsi message, sir."

That was new. He'd never got a hard copy letter before.


	3. Part 2

The letter looked strange to him. It was not the normal kind of flimsi he was used to seeing, as rare an occurance as that was. Normal hard copies were printed on white sheets or on pages that could be every colour ever imagined. This flimsi was different. Sturdier somehow. More raw and untamed. He could even see small bits of plants still remaining in the page.

Long wished to be forgotten lessons told him that this was how all flimsi looked like before peoples learned how to refine the process. This sheet of parchment was obviously hand-made. Someone apparently paid a large sum for such quality flimsi. Or they actually took the time to make the paper, which was just too ridiculous to contemplate.

He took a deep breath for courage to open it. Well, as deep as his strictly regulated lung capacity was capable of at the moment. Non-electronic mail had to be cherished as the seldom received gift that is was.

_"Most honourable Lord Vader,"_ was written.

_"I write to you as one dune child to another and do not try to convince me that you were not born and raised on old dry Tatooine. You chose Dayslayer's name as your own. That alone makes you a child of the suns._

_"You know how harsh life among the wandering sand can be, so let me be frank with my request._

_"My child was recently diagnosed with Terlyn's Syndrome. That alone would not rob me of much sleep. Terlyn's is easy to treat with a single injection every four to six months. The illness is so easy to control that most people do not even remember they have it._

_"Left alone for too long though, Terlyn's Syndrome will attack the nervous system until the body destroys itself._

_"I would not even tell you this if the Imperial Health Service had not disallowed the treatment of my child. The medicine is far more needed on the core worlds than the outback of Tatooine, they said._

_"You see, Sir? I need your help."_

The letter was signed with Beru Whitesun.

The name reminded him of something, just a slight bit of internal nagging to keep his mind sharp and not forget to watch the little details. A fragment of a memory tried to surface, but for all the stars in the universe it would not come. Vader resigned himself to not remembering until the thought wanted to clear itself.

For a long while he simply stared at the letter. Surely there must have been a mistake. Random residents of Tatooine simply do not write letters to a man who stood one step below the Emperor himself in the hierarchy of things. The proper way for her to act would have been a message to the ruling council of her planet or sector, not seeking direct contact with Darth Vader himself.

He began to laugh. Clearly this woman had nothing to lose or she was the most impertinent and brave person he had ever seen. Not even the possibly very violent wrath of Darth Vader seemed to scare her away from her intended goal.

He always liked it when people showed backbone.


End file.
